


You’d Better Watch Out

by Black_Crystal_Dragon



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Christmas Presents, Domestic Fluff, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Humor, Light Angst, Light-Hearted, M/M, Most Christmas cliches are at least mentioned, Mutual Pining, Q's family get a brief phonecall cameo but that's it, Sarcasm, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Crystal_Dragon/pseuds/Black_Crystal_Dragon
Summary: Bond refuses to get into the Christmas spirit, but that’s OK. Q comes up with a plan.
Relationships: Eve Moneypenny & Q, James Bond & Q, James Bond/Q
Comments: 35
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been in the works for _six years_. I would love to say that's a joke, but it's not. I have only been working on it in the Decembers, though, which makes it seem less bad. I wanted to get it done before _No Time To Die_ came out, utterly failed last year, and then got a stay of execution when the release was delayed ... I am taking that as a Sign that I _have_ to finish it this year.
> 
> So: here we are! Five chapters and a (very) short epilogue coming up before the 31st. That is my promise to you (and to myself).
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful best friend [Ice_Elf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice_Elf), who beta'd this even though it's not her fandom. <3
> 
> The title is (of course?) from 'Santa Claus Is Coming To Town'. ;) It amused me, anyway.
> 
> Our story starts at some point post- _SPECTRE_ , but after Bond has returned to MI6 ...

When Q ventured up into MI6’s main building in the first week of December for a meeting with M, he found an enormous fir tree standing in the main reception, decked in traditional red and gold and glittering with a multitude of fairy lights. After he emerged from M’s office, he paused in the antechamber to admire an elegant glass Christmas tree on the corner on Eve’s desk. He tapped a bauble that hung from one of the curved branches to set it gently swinging.

‘This is very pretty,’ he commented.

‘Thank you,’ she smiled.

Further conversation was cut short by the arrival of 007. Bond walked in, caught sight of the wreath hung on M’s office door, and gave a heartfelt groan. Q and Eve raised their eyebrows at one another and held a silent conference as to who was going to ask, which she won.

‘Morning, Bond,’ she said. ‘Not feeling very festive?’

‘Not particularly, Miss Moneypenny,’ Bond said. He looked perfectly put together, despite the fact that he’d flown in overnight from India after the conclusion of his latest mission. The impression was only slightly marred by the deep lines of his frown.

‘You won’t be joining the Q Branch Secret Santa, then?’ Q asked. He’d already politely excused himself from the exercise and instead put in an order for a huge box of cupcakes for his staff to enjoy during the exchange of gifts.

Bond gave him a flat look. ‘I think not.’

Eve’s desk phone rang before either of them could comment. She answered, spoke briefly and then turned to Bond as she replaced the receiver. ‘He’ll see you now, 007.’

He nodded and brushed past Q to enter M’s office. The wreath rattled slightly when he closed it behind him.

‘Well,’ Q said. ‘Bah, humbug.’

‘I think it’s sad,’ Eve said as she leaned back in her chair. ‘It’s not like he has family.’

‘No,’ he agreed, frowning.

He’d read all the Double-O files at the very first opportunity, so he knew very well that she was right. He felt rather a heel for not realising straight away why Bond might not enjoy the holidays. It was all too easy to forget that things like loneliness and grief affected him just the same way they did everybody else.

‘Do you think we should do something?’ he asked.

Eve regarded him for a moment, then clasped her hands on her desk. ‘What exactly are you proposing?’

That really was the question. The problem was, much as he didn’t like the idea of leaving Bond to stew in his own cantankerous juices, he didn’t have an answer. Would it help if they included him in the festivities of the season? Or would that just make him feel worse, obligated to smile and bear it out of courtesy? He had no idea, and he suspected from the look on Eve’s face that she knew it.

He narrowed his eyes and said, ‘I’ll get back to you.’

‘You do that,’ she said, amused, and went back to her laptop.

* * *

Within the week, there was a definite air of Christmas cheer around Q Branch. The department’s fire safety policy prohibited large-scale decorations, which meant no trees, wreaths or strings of tinsel. However, someone had tacked up several sets of twinkling fairy lights that followed the curves of the arches. More and more of the staff were wearing winter-themed knitwear. Cards were popping up along the edges of desks and Blu-tacked to the exposed brickwork and a carefully curated list of traditional carols played at low volume through the PA system during quiet periods. Q had switched his usual mug for one decorated to look like a Father Christmas suit and, in a rare idle moment, fashioned himself a little stylised Christmas tree using green LEDs, soldering wire and a nine-volt battery.

However, nothing came to a standstill just because it was the run-up to Christmas. There were still ongoing missions to monitor and agents to equip for new assignments.

‘Oh, not you too, Q?’ Bond said when he made his way down to them for the first time in December.

Q didn’t look up from his screen. ‘Afraid so, 007. Sorry to disappoint.’

Q was wearing a Christmas jumper. Compared to some of the others currently on display in Q Branch, his was very tasteful: grey, with little fluffy snowflakes and a robin whose red breast was made out of sequins. Bond strolled into his peripheral vision and stood in front of his workbench, staring balefully at the jumper as if it was a personal affront, shaking his head at the mug that was currently weighing down the corner of a technical drawing, and finally raising his eyebrows at the LED Christmas tree.

‘Couldn’t you have managed something a little more impressive?’ he said.

‘Size isn’t everything,’ Q said.

Then he looked up, because he couldn’t resist the lure of Bond’s expression. He was, predictably, smirking.

‘If you say so,’ he said, suggestive as ever.

Q allowed himself a tiny smile. ‘I find I manage to impress quite enough with my actual work without needing to show off with personal projects.’

‘Indeed you do,’ Bond murmured with a degree of sincerity that Q was utterly unprepared for when his own response had been a jab at Bond’s penchant for extracurricular heroics.

While he tried and failed to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Bond’s gaze shifted to the chart Blu-tacked to the wall behind him.

‘I ought to know better by now,’ he said with the air of a man who had made many mistakes, and knew he was about to commit to another, ‘But I have to ask: what on Earth is ‘Whamageddon’?’

‘It’s a game,’ Q said, recovering himself. ‘To see who can get the furthest into December without hearing ‘Last Christmas’.’

Bond stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language, one of the few that Bond himself couldn’t understand. Q raised his eyebrows.

‘Wham’s ubiquitous festive hit?’ he added. Bond’s face remained blank. ‘You must know it. Everybody knows it. It’s everywhere, this time of year — that’s the whole point of the game.’

‘Maybe you should play it for me, jog my memory,’ he suggested with entirely false innocence, his eyes twinkling.

Q snorted. ‘I think not. Aside from anything else, I have no desire to die by the hands of my team. We’re both well aware of how creative they can be — not to mention they could make it look like an accident with a prototype.’

‘Well, we wouldn’t want that,’ he replied. There was a smile hiding in the corners of his mouth. It might have been Q’s favourite of his expressions, if he had such a thing.

‘No, quite,’ he agreed, unable to resist a smile of his own. Then he cleared his throat and slid a small case across the workbench towards Bond. ‘I have a couple of things for you.’

Bond unlatched it and picked something up from inside. ‘Is this what I think it is?’

Q fought back a laugh at the eagerness in his voice.

‘If you think it’s an exploding pen, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,’ he said, plucking it from between Bond’s fingers and trying valiantly to ignore the fact that a Double-O agent was pouting. He disassembled the pen in a few practiced movements as he continued. ‘But it does have a hard drive built in here, which contains a very clever little programme that will bypass any security measures and download the information we need to extract. All you have to do is plug it in. Oh, and the cap can administer a short-term sedative. See?’

He showed Bond the mechanism to deploy a small hypodermic needle and the button hidden within the clip that would inject a tiny vial of concentrated sedative that was concealed at the top of the cap. He slid the needle away, put the pen back together and handed it over to Bond.

‘There’s also a connector cable built into your watch,’ he added, lifting out the modified Omega and showing him how to access it before he could start to whine. ‘And of course you have the standard issue kit —’

‘A gun and a radio, yes. I’d noticed,’ Bond said.

He’d already put the pen away in the breast pocket of his jacket and was fastening the watch around his wrist. Q watched him place the rest of his equipment to the accompaniment of ‘What Sweeter Music’ and the distant sound of drilling.

‘Do you think you could at least try to bring back something that isn’t irreparably damaged?’ Q asked when he was done. ‘Think of it as your Christmas gift to me.’

‘Who said I was planning to get you anything?’ Bond smirked as a parting shot before he walked away.

* * *

Bond spent the next couple of days tracking down the data they needed and, in between bouts of extreme violence, whingeing about the ubiquitous displays of Christmas spirit in every warm Californian locale he passed though.

‘Stiff upper lip, 007,’ Q murmured, when for the sixth time that morning he spotted poor Khadija rolling her eyes at Bond’s seasonal griping. Officially, he wasn’t handling missions himself because he had a stinking cold and couldn’t be relied upon not to have a coughing fit at the wrong moment. It didn’t mean he wasn’t monitoring everybody and chipping in on comms when he felt up to it.

‘Q,’ Bond said. If he was surprised by his Quartermaster’s interjection, he didn’t show it. He did, however, pick up on his less than crisp enunciation. ‘Feeling under the weather?’

‘A hazard of the London climate,’ he replied. He might be a head of department with MI6 but he used the Tube just like everybody else, and that meant he was exposed to the season’s bugs too.

He pinged Khadija a message on the department’s secure IM system, offering to take over. For the time being, Bond wasn’t in immediate danger: it was currently two o’clock in the morning on the west coast of the United States and even Bond could only make a limited amount of trouble while en route to a swanky hotel. He wasn’t even being tailed: Q had checked a dozen different traffic cameras since Bond’s first contact an hour ago to demand a hotel reservation and a spot on the guest list for a conference taking place the following day. When he showed his face there, hostilities would likely resume, but for the next few hours things ought to be quiet. Khadija accepted and, with an expression of mild relief, cut herself out of the feed.

Meanwhile, Bond gave a dubious hum. ‘Or perhaps the result of working in a damp basement?’

‘Damp basement?’ Q repeated, insulted even though he knew well enough that he was being baited.

‘Yes,’ Bond replied, unrepentant. Q didn’t need CCTV to know he was smirking.

‘I’ll have you know my department may be located in an underground bunker,’ he said frostily, ‘But we have not got damp.’

‘No, I imagine you’re very meticulous about that sort of thing,’ Bond said in a tone that was very difficult to read. It probably wouldn’t be any easier if he could see Bond’s face, with his eerie ability to control his expression, but Q found himself wishing he had a visual anyway.

He sniffed, and fished in the pocket of his cardigan for a tissue. ‘Anyway. Even if we did, the source of this minor plague isn’t Q Branch. I know exactly who to blame: it was the thoughtless twit on the Northern Line who sneezed six-hundred times in three stops and didn’t bother using a handkerchief.’

Bond made a sound that might well have been a suppressed snort of amusement. ‘Delightful. I can really see why you continue to make use of public transport instead of taking proper advantage of your position. MI6’s Quartermaster could have a chauffeur-driven commute every morning, you know.’

‘Don’t be an arse,’ Q said, flicking his mic off while he blew his nose so that Bond wouldn’t be subjected to the awful honking, even if he deserved it. Turning it back on, he said, ‘Tell me about these lights.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Bond chuckled, still amused by Q’s previous retort by the sounds of it.

‘Do keep up, 007,’ Q scolded. ‘The Christmas lights. What’s wrong with them? You were very keen to tell Khadija a moment ago.’

‘Oh,’ Bond said, and for an awful silent pause Q worried that he’d not just killed the mood but euthanized Bond’s good humour entirely. Then he spoke again. ‘It’s not so much the quality as the quantity.’

The statement was dry with an edge of lip-curling disdain, and to Q’s relief the slightest hint of playfulness — a tone that invited him to join the game.

‘I suppose they knock Regent Street into a cocked hat?’ he said, a smile tugging at his mouth. Something told him that the enormous shimmering angels would hardly meet with Bond’s approval.

‘Hardly,’ Bond grumbled. ‘I’m not sure anywhere else could hold a candle to spectacle London makes of itself at this time of year.’

‘Yes, we are rather fortunate in that respect,’ Q said, deliberately misunderstanding just to make Bond groan. ‘So, we’ve established that there’s a lot of twinkly lights over there: what else?’

‘You could have a look for yourself, you know. Traffic cameras,’ Bond said.

‘Mm, I’d rather you describe them to me,’ Q said. It wasn’t even a lie: he had a headache building and if he could have the excuse not to stare into a screen for a little while, he’d take it.

For a moment, he thought Bond might refuse, but then he said, ‘All right. Do you know what the worst thing is? The subject matter: snowflakes, Q. In this climate.’

‘Dreadful,’ Q agreed. Encouraged, Bond went on, while Q sipped his warm honey and lemon and leaned back in his chair to listen, closing his eyes the better to picture the scene as Bond reported it in scathing detail.

* * *

Contrary to some of the rumours bandied about by the Double-Os, who really had no room to talk, Q did go home sometimes. After all, his cats’ automatic feeder needed filling every so often. Not to mention that he had to keep on top of the state of the litter tray.

The fact that he never really clocked off was beside the point. It wasn’t so much an issue of being a department head at MI6, though that did require him to be on-call 24/7. No, the trouble was that he’d taken his hobby and made it his career. Hacking into whatever systems he could just for the hell of it was still his idea of a good time, but it did badge him as something of a workaholic when he indulged in it during his supposed downtime.

In December, however, he was at least equally likely to be raking through the internet in search of Christmas presents. Some years a round of gift cards was a necessity, thanks to the nature of his job, but his immediate relatives were never best pleased to receive them, especially when he couldn’t make it ‘home’ for the holidays. So, he tried his best to find time to source actual items to wrap and post to the family seat.

He was scrolling through Etsy on his phone, trying to find something small and suitably tasteful for Eve, when a garish picture at the bottom of the page caught his eye. He wrinkled his nose at the brightly coloured image.

His first thought was that Bond would hate it.

Q tapped through onto the listing out of morbid curiosity. He read the description, an idea starting to form in his mind, until an impatient paw tapped him on the leg. His cat was apparently displeased that his hand had gone still on her back. He resumed, murmuring an apology he was too distracted to make sarcastic, and swiped back up to look again at the picture.

Bond really would hate it. He started to smile.

He opened up his text conversation with Eve, which mostly consisted of the two of them arguing over where they were going to have lunch, and typed in a single sentence: _I may have an idea re: 007._


	2. Chapter 2

Q wasn’t entirely surprised when Bond abandoned all communication with MI6.

He kept an eye on him anyway, using the trackers in his equipment to pinpoint his location and whatever CCTV cameras happened to be nearby to watch his progress. It was almost impressive, the amount of trouble one person could get himself into with the simple instruction to retrieve some data.

By the time they heard from him again, Q had recovered from his cold enough to reclaim his usual workload and, when the call came through, he intercepted it.

‘007,’ he said. ‘Remembered how to use our radio, have we?’

It was five days after the conference and a full twenty-four hours since Q had watched Bond swagger into and stagger out of the highly secure office where the information they needed was stored. He was allowed to be annoyed by the lack of contact.

Not, he reminded himself firmly, that he’d been worried.

They’d had no firm idea whether Bond had achieved his objective or not, that was all. Q had seen everything that happened inside the building, thanks to some intricate hacking that would be unremarked upon, but he couldn’t be certain that Bond had left the pen’s hard drive plugged in for long enough to decrypt and download everything they needed. It would be inconvenient if he’d made a mess of a simple infiltration and data extraction. That was his primary concern, obviously.

‘Lovely to talk to you too, Q,’ Bond said. ‘Have you been missing me terribly?’

It didn’t sound like he was in pain. The coil of tightness in Q’s chest eased its squeezing grip on his lungs. He waited until he was sure his voice wouldn’t waver before he spoke.

‘What I miss, 007,’ he said, taking refuge in the familiar territory of acerbic disapproval, ‘Is regular status updates. Situation reports. An idea, however vague, of what an agent is planning to do next.’ A low chuckle vibrated into his ear. He swallowed a shiver. ‘What I’m missing most of all right now is confirmation that you retrieved the data.’

‘Such little faith,’ Bond chided but refrained from either affirmation or denial. ‘I’ll need a flight.’

‘Of course you will,’ Q said, already opening the appropriate windows. ‘Airport?’

‘Los Angeles International.’

Q decided not to comment on the fact that Bond was almost four-hundred miles south from his last known coordinates. Instead, he established that Bond’s destination was London and set about figuring out his quickest route home. The Quartermaster of MI6, a glorified travel consultant. He could have passed the task off to someone else, of course, but that would have meant handing over the call, too.

‘Do you hear that?’ Bond asked after a pause.

‘Hostiles?’ Q asked, pausing in his work to prick his ears only for Bond to chuckle at him.

‘No. Radio station. They’re doing phone-in requests,’ he said. He must have adjusted the volume or moved closer to a speaker, because the background noise increased and resolved into a familiar song. Bond added, ‘I’m Dreaming Of A White Christmas. In California.’

Q could hear the smile hidden underneath his sneer. ‘Nothing like a little Bing Crosby to put you in a festive mood,’ he said, and then murmured along with the chorus: ‘May your days be merry and bright …’

‘The only thing likely to make my day merry and bright,’ Bond said, ‘Is an upgrade to first class.’

‘I’m not entirely sure you’ve earned it, 007,’ Q teased, but his cursor was already moving to modify the options.

‘Ten hours in economy? You wouldn’t,’ Bond said, daring him to do it and secure in his assumption that Q was incapable of such cruelty. His smile was perfectly audible in every word.

‘I might, if I thought you’d failed to acquire the vitally important data we sent you to collect,’ Q said. Meanwhile, he was already confirming Bond’s first-class seat: he wouldn’t be asking for a flight home if he hadn’t fulfilled his mission criteria. A flight elsewhere, perhaps, but not a return to London.

‘Q,’ Bond said, drawing out the syllable in admonishment. ‘When have I ever disappointed you?’

‘Need I remind you of the many times you have ignored my advice, destroyed my equipment and gone completely off piste?’ he replied, but he was unable to keep the fondness from slipping into his voice.

‘Ah, but I do get the job done,’ Bond replied, and there was the predictable smirk. The self-satisfied pride of a man who was damn good at what he did and well aware of the fact.

Q shook his head with a sigh and did his best to wipe the smile off his face. ‘I suppose you do. You’ll have your e-tickets in a moment. Best I could do, but I’m afraid you’ll have a bit of a wait.’

‘Thank you, Q,’ Bond told him, and the low, heartfelt murmur of his voice sent goosebumps shivering down the back of Q’s neck.

‘It does mean you won’t be back in time for the Christmas Party,’ Q said, changing the subject to distract himself and filling his voice with overblown regret to disguise any hint of how Bond’s voice had momentarily affected him.

‘What a tragedy,’ Bond replied.

Sarcasm dripped from his words and put a smile on Q’s face. He could well imagine how much Bond would hate it — probably as much as he did, though for different reasons.

‘Are you going?’ Bond asked after a beat of silence in a tone that implied that he couldn’t imagine Q would attend any more than Q could see Bond there in one of his sleek tuxedos, martini in hand. There was going to be a buffet and a disco, for heaven’s sake.

‘Of course,’ Q said brightly.

He wasn’t actually looking forward to it, but winding Bond up by pretending to enjoy all the little rituals of Christmas rather more than necessary was an increasingly enjoyable pastime. Besides, he was convinced by now that Bond was not the Grinch, left with a heart two sizes too small after so many personal tragedies. He just enjoyed indulging in fastidious disapproval — which Q knew anyway, from all the comments about his hair and clothes and choice to use public transport. It was a game, and one Q was willing to play even if he wasn’t entirely certain of the rules, let alone the scoring system.

There was another pause. Then Bond said, ‘You do realise that they’re going to play ‘Last Christmas’ at some point?’

Q laughed, equal parts surprised and delighted that Bond had remembered. ‘Yes, and we shall all lose Whamageddon spectacularly together.’

‘Not me,’ Bond said. He sounded quite proud of the achievement, as if it really mattered to him, even though he’d only found out about the game a few days before.

‘No, you’ll still be in the running,’ Q smiled. ‘As long as you don’t hear it at the airport. Have a good flight.’

‘Enjoy your party, Quartermaster,’ Bond said, and Q didn’t think he was imagining the fondness in his voice.

Q shut down the comms. After a moment’s thought, he rummaged in a drawer to find a black sharpie and went over to the Whamageddon chart. The red pen hanging beside it had been getting more and more use as the month went on and around half the names on the list had already been crossed out, the date of each elimination scrawled into the columns representing each week before Christmas. There was just enough space at the very bottom to add Bond to the list in neat capitals.

* * *

Q Branch was familiar with organised chaos, but even by their standards the atmosphere was more exuberant that usual. The soothing playlist of carols had been replaced by an unapologetic set of catchy Christmas hits. Most people were wearing elf ears or reindeer antlers or paper crowns. Q was right in the middle of it, sporting a Santa hat that someone had jammed onto his head. He was trying to squeeze another box of doughnuts onto the laden workbench in the centre of the normally clear foyer area when a hush fell, and people stopped scurrying around him. He looked up to see that Bond had walked in, and was looking at them all with an expression of bemusement.

Q handed the doughnuts to the nearest of his techs and walked over.

‘Ah, 007,’ he said, as if it was perfectly normal to find precious desk space being used to display a range of desserts and the smell of hot sausage and bacon sandwiches filling the air rather than smoke.

‘What’s going on?’ Bond asked as the techs started talking again, the action of moments before winding back into motion: a careful ballet of people handing out drinks, collecting paper plates and napkins, and surveying the bounty on offer.

‘A little Q Branch tradition. The morning after the office Christmas Party is always a bit rough, and of course some people missed out on attending,’ Q shrugged. ‘So we have a Christmas brunch.’

‘This is brunch?’ Bond said, his brows lifting as he turned his gaze again to the workbench.

‘We have savouries,’ Q pointed out. ‘I possibly over-ordered, so if you’d like a lukewarm sausage in a bun, you’re welcome to it. In the kitchen: second door—’

Bond held up a hand to cut off his directions. ‘I know where it is. I do happen to have worked here longer than you.’

Q let that slide, but only because it was technically true. He beckoned Bond to follow him over to his usual workstation. ‘All right, I’m assuming you’re here to at least return the pieces. Show me.’

Bond smiled and unholstered his gun. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat to retrieve his earpiece and the pen, which had lost its cap but otherwise seemed to be in good condition. Finally, he removed his watch and placed it on the workbench beside the other items.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Merry Christmas.’

Q stared at the four items laid out in front of him. Apart from the missing pen cap and justified cosmetic damage to the watch inflicted by rough removal of the cable, everything looked exactly as it had when he’d given it to Bond.

‘It’s a Christmas miracle,’ he said reverently, and Bond barked a laugh.

‘Good to know that you have such faith in me, Quartermaster,’ he said. When Q reached out to touch the equipment, he added, ‘Sorry about the cap.’

‘Understandable,’ Q replied quietly. The sedative hidden inside had saved Bond’s life, and he couldn’t blame the man for leaving it embedded in his assailant’s throat in favour of a quick escape.

‘I should leave you to your brunch,’ Bond murmured, but then he laid a warm hand on Q’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Thanks.’

The contact was gone almost immediately. Q wouldn’t allow himself to miss it. Instead, he turned to Bond and said, ‘You’re welcome. You can stay, if you like.’

Bond’s face remained inscrutable. The tiniest hint of a superior smirk twisted his lips, but that was just his default. ‘I think not.’

‘Too festive for you?’ Q teased, just to see Bond’s micro-expression flicker a little closer to a smile.

‘Just a tad,’ Bond said dryly. He leaned in, his voice dipping to a stage-whisper. ‘And I have no wish to see what effect all that sugar has on your minions.’

‘I don’t have minions,’ Q said, his mind automatically filling in small yellow cylindrical critters running around Q Branch and himself, dressed all in black, as their nefarious master. He fought the urge to smile.

‘If you say so,’ Bond said in a tone that suggested he had caught the upward twitch at the corners of his mouth, his eyes filled with amusement. ‘Until next time.’

He turned to go, but Q called him back: ‘Oh, 007?’

He lifted a finger, tipped his head to the side, signalling for him to listen to the song that had just started to play through the PA system. It took Bond a few seconds to recognise the opening bars of a very particular Christmas hit.

Bond didn’t quite roll his eyes, but his expression pinched into one of annoyance. ‘Dammit.’

Q did his best not to laugh and went over to the Whamageddon chart on the wall to draw a neat red line through the name at the very bottom.

* * *

‘Now that he’s back in the country, what are we going to do about Bond?’ Eve asked over their next casual lunch.

‘Besides strangle him?’ Q asked automatically, because biting comments were the default whenever someone asked him a question relating to 007. As defence mechanisms went, it was fairly transparent, but most people took it at face value given their ostensibly chalk-and-cheese natures.

Eve was not most people. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Besides that. I thought he was in your good books.’

‘I suppose he is, briefly,’ he agreed in between chips. He could allow that much.

‘He told me he’d brought you a Christmas present.’

‘Yes: his field equipment — very festive,’ he snapped, doing his best to keep up the appearance of annoyance despite the threat of a smile pulling at his lips.

Eve laughed. ‘Well, it was what you asked for, wasn’t it?’

Q didn’t bother to suppress an eye-roll, which only made her laugh even more. She might be right, and he might be actually quite charmed by Bond‘s ‘gift’, but he didn’t have to admit to any of it. After a moment, she settled and stole one of his chips.

‘And what about your present for him? Has it arrived yet?’ she asked before she popped it into her mouth. There was a hint of teasing in her voice and she had fixed him with a knowing sort of look, but he didn’t rise to it. He was too busy smiling to himself at the memory of opening the package he’d received while Bond was in America and discovering that his purchase was even more hideous in person.

‘It has, yes,’ he said. ‘But I’ve been thinking: I don’t want to just give it to him.’

‘Afraid of showing your hand?’ Eve asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Q frowned. ‘Showing my hand?’

‘Letting him know that you like him,’ she said with a suggestive lift of her arched brows.

‘Oh, stop,’ he scoffed.

‘Are you really going to pretend that you don’t?’

‘Please. The man has a face like a boot. He does!’ he protested over the bright sound of Eve’s laughter. ‘I really can’t see what all the fuss is about.’

‘Yes you can,’ she teased.

He huffed and leaned back in his chair, arms folded, rather than dignifying that with an answer. She would only accuse him of protesting too much, and besides, he didn’t like lying to his friends.

She stole another of his chips and, to Q’s relief, let it drop to resume discussion: ‘If you don’t give it to him in person, you’ll miss the look on his face when he opens it.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Q sighed, because that was something of a tragedy. Still, he was fairly certain that Bond would complain to him at length about it regardless of whether he knew he was responsible.

He seemed to have become Bond’s Yuletide sounding board. Bond had called the previous day, straight to Q’s direct line, asking for ‘extraction’ from the Leicester Square Christmas Market. Q had spent a thoroughly enjoyable lunch hour directing him through as many festive hotspots as he could get away with while Bond grumbled into his ear about everything from the faux ‘apres ski’ bars serving mulled wine and alcoholic hot chocolate to the droves of tourists snapping photos of the fake snow and fir decor. They had debated the merits of hog roasts, crepes and Christmas dinner wraps, with Q cheerfully playing up the role of devil’s advocate all the while to contrast Bond’s dour criticisms. Q sternly told himself that, between the frigid weather and the crowds, he wouldn’t have enjoyed being out there in person, wandering between the stalls alongside Bond, catching every grudging smile he’d tried to stifle.

‘Well then, why not just hand it over?’ Eve said, somewhat reproachfully, bringing him back to the moment. He’d been staring wistfully into space for rather too long. He cleared his throat, self-conscious, but at least she hadn’t mentioned his distraction outright.

‘Because I don’t think he’d open in front of me if I did,’ he replied, without meeting her perceptive gaze. ‘Gifts should be saved until Christmas Day, apparently.’

Bond had said as much when Q divulged yesterday that his department’s Secret Santa exchange would be taking place later in the week. Much like the rest of his complaints, Q wasn’t sure he was entirely serious about it, but he wouldn’t put it past Bond to withhold his reaction just to annoy him.

‘So what are you doing to do?’ Eve asked.

‘I have a plan,’ Q said, relishing it. He might work for a top-secret organisation and use a single letter designation instead of a name, but there really was a dearth of opportunities for dramatic pronouncements, and certainly not ones he could actually enjoy. Their enemies got all the fun in that regard. With this, however, there were no lives or livelihoods at stake, and he could indulge himself. He’d been scheming ever since he found the item on Etsy, trying to find the sweet spot that would leave Bond both exasperated and amused. He was sure he had it, but he couldn’t quite pull the whole thing off by himself. He added, ‘I might need to enlist your help.’

Eve pushed her plate to one side so that she could lean towards him across the table and give him her full attention, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. ‘What do you need?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for maligning Daniel Craig's looks, please don't hurt me. :S
> 
> Hope you are enjoying this so far! Next chapter: the execution of Q's plan ...


	3. Chapter 3

Christmas Eve found Q wrapping up the last few outstanding tasks before the holidays. Thanks to a combination of careful planning and coincidental good fortune, none of the Double-O agents ought to be in imminent danger for the next few day, barring emergencies, and he might actually get to spend Christmas Day at home in his pyjamas exactly as he planned.

Shortly before lunch, Eve came down to make sure that they were still going ahead with the plan — and to not-so-subtly check up on him.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right tomorrow?’ she asked. Because she was Eve, and therefore superhuman, she managed to sound only slightly patronising.  
  
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘A quiet day at home with my cats — it’ll be an improvement on last year, at least.’  
  
Last December, he had spent the twenty-fifth alone in Q Branch, desperately trying to hack a satellite while 004 fought her way through a bunker in the desert. It had not been fun.  
  
Eve hummed, ever the sceptic.  
  
‘Look,’ he said, abandoning his coding to look directly at her. ‘I promise I’ll be brimming with festive cheer tomorrow as long as tonight goes according to plan.’  
  
‘All right,’ she murmured, smiling slightly. ‘Don’t worry: I’ll keep Bond occupied.’  
  
‘I’m sure you will,’ Q said, and went back to his typing.

Q busied himself with prodding a stubborn project here, re-writing a line of code there. He chivvied the majority of his remaining staff out of the door shortly after twelve o’clock, and not long after that he gave up the pretence of work himself. He set his computer to play Christmas carols, turned on the wall-screen in his office and settled down to oversee the movements of various agents across a slowly side-scrolling map of the Earth. It was quite soothing, watching the little blue dots shift in tiny increments. Everyone was where they ought to be, and the sight of all the dots in the proper locations put a smile on his face.  
  
A while later, when Q had finished his tea and his skeleton staff had made no less than five attempts to get him to actually go home, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and opened the message. It was from Eve.  
  
_Meeting Bond now._  
  
He smiled and started packing up his workstation. After a few seconds, another text arrived from Eve.  
  
_He wants to come down there and get you._  
  
Q smiled as he texted back. _Tell him I’m working on something that can’t wait._  
  
Technically speaking, it wasn’t a lie. He did have a job to do. It just wasn’t something MI6 was paying him for, if he wanted to be strictly accurate. Still, he was pretty sure that M would approve of the general idea, if not the illegal nature of the execution. He shut down the wall screen, logged off his computer terminal and was just collecting his laptop and sliding it into his bag when his phone buzzed yet again.  
  
_We’re on our way to you_ , Eve’s text read.  
  
_No!!_ Q protested, dropping everything and dashing out of his office to find something that looked half-finished and complicated. The remaining Q Branch staff watched in bemusement as he started fiddling with a prototype handgun that was currently in pieces across one of the tables.

‘Not a word,’ he snapped to everyone within earshot. He was just in time: he had only seconds to make himself seem engrossed before Bond, Eve and Tanner strolled into the department.

‘Q,’ Bond said by way of a greeting as he came to a stop beside the workbench. ‘Hard at work, as ever.’

‘Always, 007,’ he replied.

‘Miss Moneypenny tells me you turned down her lunch invitation. For this?’

‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘It’s absolutely vital that I get this piece of equipment back in working order before tomorrow morning. National security depends on it. I’m afraid you’ll just have to do without me.’

‘We could wait,’ Bond pressed.

‘It’ll be hours, yet.’

‘Then we could have dinner instead of lunch.’

Q raised his head. Bond gave him a look: a candid little lift of his brows that seemed to say, go on. He hesitated, regret tugging at the centre of his chest for the first time since he’d come up with this plan. He hadn’t really considered what he was giving up in order to carry it out. Then again, if he had, he would never have imagined Bond going out of his way to include him like this. Still: the plan had to go ahead, and for that he needed Bond out of the way for a couple of hours to give him time to work.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nowhere will have any tables left unreserved for tonight, unless you want to end up in a McDonalds.’

Tanner snorted but, to Q’s amazement, Bond didn’t immediately dismiss the idea. He turned towards Eve, obviously looking for her opinion on the prospect of fast food, and thankfully she rescued Q with a shake of her head.

‘Sorry. Much as I’d love to see you either one of you eat a Big Mac,’ she said, looking first at Bond and then at Q, ‘I have plans.’

‘There you are,’ Q said, letting the McDonalds comment pass unremarked and making a show of turning his full attention back to the weapon.

‘Not to mention, my wife won’t be best pleased if I’m late home,’ Tanner added. He checked his watch, and Q wondered suddenly if Eve had let him in on their scheme to brighten Bond’s Christmas. ‘Look, I’m sorry you can’t make it, Q, but they’ll be giving away our table if we don’t get a move on ...’

‘Then we’d best be off,’ Eve said, turning to go, but once again Bond surprised Q by staying put.

‘You’re sure I can’t convince you to join us?’ he murmured.

‘Duty calls, I’m afraid. Perhaps another time,’ Q said. He didn’t dare look up from the fiddly bit of wiring he was pretending to examine.

Bond’s voice dipped into an almost seductive register. ‘Won’t be the same without you.’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ he scoffed. ‘You won’t even notice I’m not there.’

‘Nonsense, Q,’ Bond said.

His voice was far too earnest. Q braved a glance over the top of his glasses. Bond was smiling in a manner that was needlessly attractive, even slightly blurred. Behind him, Eve and Tanner were watching from the doorway. He couldn’t really see much more than smudges of colour at that distance, but somehow he still knew she was raising her eyebrows at him and wearing her ‘I told you so’ expression. He hurriedly looked back at Bond as he seemed to be the lesser of two evils, though it was a close thing.

‘Are we having lunch or not?’ Tanner called.

‘I really am frightfully busy, 007,’ he said, regret once again unfurling inside his chest.

‘Another time, then. I’ll hold you to that,’ Bond said. He hesitated a moment longer, then added, ‘Happy Christmas, Quartermaster.’

Q straightened so he could look through his lenses and bring Bond into focus. His mouth was the usual crooked smirk but his eyes held a genuine smile, one Q found it impossible not to return.

‘And you, 007,’ he said, and tried to ignore the swoop of his own stomach when Bond’s expression warmed even further, just for a moment, before he turned away.

Q did his best to ignore the look on Eve’s face as he watched Bond go and breathed a sigh of relief when the three of them departed Q Branch. He also tried very hard not to notice the curious stares from his staff as he put the prototype back as it had been before. He didn’t bother to explain himself: the rumour mill would no doubt make something of the incident no matter what he said, so he might as well give them carte blanche, since it was Christmas. He retreated into his office for ten minutes to give them chance to clear the building before making a hasty exit of his own.

* * *

It took Q just over half an hour to get from Vauxhall to the Tube stop nearest Bond’s building and from there he had a brisk walk. There was a buzzer beside the front door — Bond’s button a blank alongside the names of other residents — but Q ignored it. He made quick work of picking the lock using one of Q Branch’s gadgets, a sort of skeleton key, while blocking the security cameras’ view with his body.

Inside, he made his way up to Bond’s actual front door and used the same device to let himself in. The security system chirruped at him, but it took only a few moments to disarm it and then he could take a proper look around. He flicked on the lights.

There was not a scrap of Christmas cheer to be found, only clean modern lines and an air of abandonment. Everything was decorated in muted tones of anonymous beige. Prints stood propped against the blank walls, there were cardboard boxes beside the television, and the mantelpiece stood empty. A few books had been thrown into a careless jumble on the coffee table. The only evidence that the place was actually Bond’s was the Union Flag bulldog sitting on the coffee table, wearing its cracks with pride.

Q padded over to the bay window and looked out at the lights in the houses opposite, brighter and more twinkly than usual with the addition of Christmas decorations. He turned back to survey the flat, suddenly feeling rather like Bob Cratchit in Scrooge’s office: sorry that someone would refuse to partake in the high spirits of the season, and also sad to see such a sparse existence in the first place. He couldn’t let it stand. If he did, he’d spend all of Christmas Day making himself depressed by dwelling on the memory of Bond’s empty flat.  
  
He took a deep breath and pulled out his phone. Time was already against him.

 _Need more time_ , he texted before hurrying out of the flat and locking up behind him. Once outside, he set off at a brisk pace towards the supermarket he’d passed on his way from the Tube station.

Eve’s response wasn’t immediate, but it was pretty fast. _Problem?_

 _Situation more tragic than we suspected_ , he replied, and left it at that.

 _I’ll do my best_ , came the reply, which was something of a dubious promise but Q would take whatever he could get.

* * *

The problem was, it was after two o’clock on Christmas Eve. The shops were filled with frantic last-minute buyers and staff who’d really rather be anywhere else, and all of the good decorations had been snatched up weeks ago. Still, Q did his best. Keeping half an eye on his phone in case of texts, he rattled through the stores that were still open and grabbed the best he could find from whatever they had left. Eventually, to his enormous relief, he found an artificial tree that was both small enough to carry by himself and large enough that it wouldn’t look stupid in Bond’s living room.  
  
Returning to Bond’s flat with his purchases was an adventure he had no desire to repeat: a hell of too many awkward bags, a giant box and an excess of accidental collisions. He stumbled up the steps to Bond’s building with an intense feeling of relief and somehow juggled everything so he could retrieve the skeleton key to let himself in.

His first task once inside was to set up the tree in a spot where it would be immediately visible from the door. He twined the lights around it, testing each set before he began, and when it turned out that he’d got too many he strung the extras around the fireplace. That in itself made the place more festive, but he still had more work to do. He opened the baubles one package at a time and arranged them. The finishing touch was a cheap pine-scented diffuser, which he stuck in one of the sockets alongside the lights.  
  
He stood back to admire his work, smiling to himself. From the limited range available, he’d tried to pick out things that might appeal to Bond if he was choosing for himself. The result combined traditional tree decorations with a modern colour scheme of silver, midnight blue and black. The lights were all candle-white rather than multicoloured and glowed softly from between the branches, painting the floor and ceiling with interesting shadows. It was understated rather than glitzy and Q rather thought Bond would approve of it.

Ideally, he would have liked to rig up some kind of motion sensor or link to the alarm system so that the lights would come on when Bond arrived home, but without the guarantee of enough time he couldn’t risk it. He could only hope that shutting the curtains and blinds would block enough of the light that Bond wouldn’t realise something was up until he opened his front door.  
  
Q bundled all of the boxes into Bond’s store cupboard alongside a vacuum cleaner he’d probably never touched then threw away the rest of the packaging, leaving no trace except for stray flakes of glitter. Finally, he pulled a neatly wrapped and slightly squashy present out of his satchel, slipped it under the tree and made his way back to the door.  
  
Just as he was closing it behind him, his text alert sounded and he grabbed his phone. It was Eve, warning him that Bond was on his way home — he’d just dropped her off, which meant Q didn’t have much time to get clear. He hurried out of the building, pulling the collar of his coat up to hide his face just in case, but he didn’t see any sign of Bond as he strode towards the nearest tube station, where he could finally relax — and imagine the look on Bond’s face when he got home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm delighted to be posting Christmas Eve shenanigans on Christmas Eve, haha.
> 
> Fun fact: the events of this chapter are the premise this whole fic was built around. There was a trend in 00Q fic back in 2015 to have Bond break into Q's flat for various reasons (is this still a thing?), and I kept thinking, 'But what if _Q_ broke into _Bond's_ flat ...?' And so this fic was born! :)
> 
> This will be the last update before Christmas, but I will be back with the final two chapters and epilogue starting on Sunday — as they are now officially complete! I finished writing yesterday! \o/
> 
> Merry Christmas, everyone. Whether you are celebrating something or not, I hope the next few days are kind to you.


	4. Chapter 4

On Christmas morning, habit woke Q earlier than he intended. He spent a few minutes trying to fall back to sleep, but his tossing and turning alerted the cats to the fact that he was awake, and it wasn’t long before they had made their way up to the pillow and started meowing plaintively in his face. He quietened them with ear-scratches and back-stroking for a little while, but eventually he had to sit up and don his glasses.

‘All right, all right,’ he grumbled as he got up, grabbing a jumper and his slippers to ward off the chill. He shuffled into the bathroom, making a point of closing the door on the cats, and then headed towards the kitchen, flicking on the living room light as he walked in.

‘This is quite possibly the ugliest jumper I have ever seen,’ said a voice from the couch.

Q squawked and spun around. Bond was sitting beside the Christmas tree. He was wearing the jumper in question. He was also utterly unapologetic about the fact that he had turned up uninvited and given Q the shock of his life.

Bond glanced down at himself, then back up at Q. ‘You really shouldn’t have.’

‘Happy Christmas to you too,’ Q said, leaning heavily on the wall and glaring. He wasn’t awake enough for the nice surprises under the tree, let alone the unexpected appearance of a Double-O agent. ‘How did you get in?’

‘Oh, presumably the same way you got into my place to drop off my present,’ Bond said dryly.

‘That,’ Q told him with utter seriousness, ‘Was Father Christmas.’

Bond laughed, and Q abruptly stopped feeling hard-done-by. He gestured towards the tree. ‘Well, you might as well turn the lights on. The switch is down the side of the couch.’

While Bond twisted around to look, Q went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on before attending to the cats. As they set about eating their breakfasts, he poured two mugs of tea and left them to steep while he poked his head back into the living room. The Christmas tree lights were on but otherwise very little had changed. Bond was still comfortably ensconced in the corner of the couch and, contrary to Q’s expectations, he hadn’t removed the jumper. It was a travesty of thick stripes in green, red and white, densely patterned with snowflakes and presents, leaping reindeers and stylised pines. Bond had paired it with a crisp white shirt and grey trousers and, damn the man, he somehow managed to carry it off. The chunky knitwear looked as close to good as it was ever likely to get.

‘Splash of milk, no sugar?’ Q said.

Asking was mostly a courtesy since he knew very well how Bond took his English Breakfast. And his Earl Gray, Assam and Ceylon, too, while he was at it. He was very good at remembering the details gleaned from surveillance, even when they weren’t professionally relevant. The smile in Bond’s eyes made it clear that he was aware the question was a formality, but he didn’t comment on it as he inclined his head.

Q ducked back into the kitchen and put some bread in the toaster while he waited for the tea to finish brewing. He wasn’t going to offer Bond a slice, but then he remembered the date — goodwill to men and all that — and sighed to himself.

‘Can I interest you in some toast?’ he called.

‘Toast?’ Bond replied, incredulous.

‘Yes. I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting company so it’s about all I can muster in the way of breakfast, but I do have marmalade,’ Q said.

‘Oh, well, if there’s marmalade,’ Bond said, sardonic as ever.

‘Just for that, you don’t get any,’ Q said to himself. Christmas or not, there were limits, and it didn’t sound like Bond was interested, anyway. He buttered his toast, spread it thick with marmalade, finished off the teas and carried the whole lot through into the living room with only marginal difficulty.

‘I see you’ve met Merlin,’ Q observed as he manoeuvred the mugs down onto the coffee table. It was no surprise that the cats had come to investigate the unexpected visitor as soon as they’d finished inhaling their food, and predictably Merlin had already jumped up and ingratiated himself. Q nodded to the regal tortoiseshell curled up on the armchair. ‘That’s Sandringham.’

Bond’s brows lifted at the names, but he continued to scratch beneath Merlin’s chin with one finger in silence. Q had taken a seat at the opposite end of the couch, one foot tucked underneath him and the plate of toast balanced on his knee, before he asked, ‘And what should I call you?’

Q shot him a suspicious look. ‘Q’s fine.’

‘Hardly your name, though,’ Bond said. In a speculative tone, and watching for his reaction, he tried: ‘Quentin? Quincy?’

‘You know very well it stands for Quartermaster, not my initial,’ he replied, and then savoured his first bite of toast in a manner that he hoped would close the subject.

Bond did not take the hint. He said, ‘I suppose you’re thinking of national security. Or perhaps professional boundaries …?’

‘I think we’re rather beyond that, don’t you?’ Q said, eyeing Bond’s new jumper and then looking down at his own casual attire.

‘Perhaps,’ Bond said. A real smile touched his lips as he spoke, but then it faded into something more melancholy. Q took pity on him.

‘It’s not a matter of national security, 007,’ he said quietly. He liked to think that, of all people, he could trust Bond with his identity. ‘I just like Q.’

Bond tipped his head in silent enquiry.

‘It’s enigmatic,’ Q shrugged. The rich sound of Bond’s chuckle shivered down his spine even as he bristled with indignation. ‘Don’t laugh. I can be enigmatic.’

‘You certainly can,’ Bond said and the warmth in his voice was a caress that soothed down Q’s ruffled feathers. After a pause, he continued, ‘On the subject of names, you might use mine.’

‘Oh.’ Q blinked. He hadn’t thought twice about using the Double-O designation a moment ago: it was what he habitually called Bond. However, he could see how it didn’t quite fit in the current context. He cleared his throat and said, ‘If you like?’

‘Just a thought,’ Bond said in a stage-whisper. Q had the distinct impression he was being teased, which only increased when he added, ‘007’s not quite as succinct as a single letter.’

‘If I wanted to be made fun of on Christmas morning, James —’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t dare, Q,’ Bond lied. He seemed deeply amused, sitting there and fussing Merlin as if it was all he lived for, his gaze fixed on Q’s face in a manner that ought to have been disconcerting but instead felt intimate.

Q fixed him with a look of his own. ‘If I wanted that, I’d have gone home.’

‘I was going to ask why you hadn’t,’ Bond said with a smirk that skirted dangerously close to a real smile.

‘Unfortunately the head of Q-Branch can’t be spared,’ he said loftily, because if anyone could understand it would be Bond. He gently quashed the pang of guilt and yearning and added, partly to remind himself, ‘Though my brothers can be relentless.’

‘Glad of the excuse?’ Bond asked.

‘Something like that, though I do pine after my mum’s roast potatoes,’ Q said. He managed a smile as he spoke. After all, if he was there, he’d be using a ‘work emergency’ to escape as soon as lunch was over, possibly with assistance from Eve. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d texted her asking for a rescue from his own lovely, overwhelming family.

‘At least you have their presents,’ Bond said, eyes twinkling as he glanced under the tree, ‘Unless they’re from Father Christmas …?’

Q narrowed his eyes for the look of the thing, fighting against a smile. ‘First you find fault with my name, now my age, apparently. What’s next, my looks?’

‘Hardly,’ Bond murmured. His gaze swept over him from tousled head to bare feet and back again. Q did his best not to squirm under the scrutiny. Bond had looked at him before. This was nothing out of the ordinary. When their eyes met again, Bond’s sparkled with a smile.

‘If you’re quite finished,’ Q said in the driest tone he could muster, telling his tripping heart to behave. Bond smirked in a manner that suggested he was nowhere close to done, but Q cut him off before he could make any kind of comment: ‘Pass me one of those presents.’

Q unwrapped the parcels from his family while Bond watched in apparent contentment. All he said, when Q tore open Eve’s gift to reveal some very fancy chocolates, was that she’d bought him a bottle of Scotch that Q could only assume would be exquisite. Bond pointedly added that she’d handed it over during their lunch the day before, but Q didn’t rise to the bait. Half the point of his plan had been the element of surprise. Meanwhile, Merlin migrated fully onto Bond’s lap and started purring like a well-tuned engine, while Sandringham deigned to leave her favourite armchair on the basis that there were bags and boxes to explore. Q was sure his mum, in particular, packaged his Christmas and birthday presents so that his cat would get something too. He batted a scrunched ball of wrapping paper past the overturned bag she was crouched in. Despite the fact that she was an old lady in cat terms, she darted out to catch it. Q was about to suggest another cup of tea when, from the bedroom, his phone began to ring.

‘Time to fulfil my filial obligations,’ he said as he got to his feet. Over his shoulder, his promised ‘Shan’t be long.’

The moment he answered the phone, multiple voices chorused, ‘Merry Christmas!’

‘Merry Christmas to you, too,’ Q replied. An automatic smile pulled at his lips. It was good to hear them, even if it brought with it another twinge of regret that he wasn’t there in person. He sank down on the edge of the bed to join in with the quick round of thank-yous and you’re-welcomes.

‘Now, I don’t want you to feel guilty because I know you have very good reasons, but I do wish you were here with us, darling. We miss you,’ his mum said after she’d taken him off speaker and spent a couple of minutes gushing over the scarf he’d sent her.

‘I know, I miss you too,’ he said.

‘I hate to think of you all alone there in your little flat,’ she sighed.

‘It’s not that little, and I’m really not lonely,’ Q said, thinking of Bond sitting in his living room, lit by the Christmas tree and with a cat curled up on his knee. There was always the possibility that he would have disappeared again by the time this phone call was over, but for now Q could imagine he would still be there when he emerged from the bedroom. He smiled to himself and added, ‘The opposite, in fact.’

‘Yes, I know you have Sandy and Merlin, but your cats can’t wish you a happy Christmas, can they?’ she sighed. ‘It’s not the same.’

‘I didn’t mean the cats, actually,’ he said before he could consider what a can of worms the truth would open.

His mum actually gasped. ‘If I’d known you were having company I’d have sent something! Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve posted a box of chocolates —’

‘It was all a bit spontaneous,’ Q said quickly.

As he spoke, his dad said, ‘What’s that? He’s got someone there with him?’

‘That makes it sound like a hostage situation,’ Q muttered, but was ignored by the other end of the call.

‘Well, apparently!’ his mum said in a distinctly miffed tone.

‘I didn’t even know he had a new boyfriend,’ his dad grumbled.

‘Nor did I!’

‘That’s because I don’t,’ Q protested loudly. ‘It’s not like that. He’s just someone I work with.’

‘Who you’re spending Christmas with,’ his mum said, deeply dubious.

‘It wasn’t planned,’ he said. ‘He just sort of turned up.’

‘Darling, people you ‘just’ work with don’t turn up unannounced for Christmas,’ his mum said in the voice she reserved for people who were being deliberately difficult, which Q felt was unfair. Especially because he could see her point when she put it like that.

‘Yes, all right, but he’s not my boyfriend,’ he said, and hated the way he’d lowered his voice to almost a hiss for fear of being overheard. However, he really didn’t want to have to explain his parents’ assumptions to Bond.

‘If you say so,’ his mum replied. She clearly didn’t believe him. ‘Can we at least have a name for this mystery man?’

‘James,’ Q admitted, taking the path of least resistance in the hopes she would stop badgering him. As an extra precaution, he added, ‘And I really shouldn’t leave him in the living room by himself for much longer ...’

‘Point taken,’ she said, her knowing smile very much audible as she said it. ‘Well, I’ll let you go, then, darling. Do ring again soon, won’t you?’

No doubt the next time they spoke she’d interrogate him about ‘James’, but at least he could end the mortification for today.

After they said their goodbyes, Q headed back into the living room and found, to his pleasant surprise, that Bond hadn’t sneaked away in his absence. Even more astonishing, Sandringham had deemed him worthy and jumped onto the arm of the sofa to permit him to stroke her. The two cats seemed to command all of Bond’s attention and Q stood for a long moment in the doorway, observing the most infamous Double-O agent in MI6 as he made a fuss of both of them.

‘She doesn’t take to just anyone, you know,’ he said when he couldn’t justify lurking in the hall any longer and came in to collect the mugs and his plate.

‘In that case, I’m honoured,’ Bond said, looking up with a small, private smile that made Q’s insides shiver.

‘More tea?’ he suggested. ‘And then I was going to put on a film.’

That had been his only plan for the day. In preparation, he had bought tubs of Quality Street and Celebrations and recorded a raft of Christmas films, and he’d intended to start at the bottom and work his way up. He expected Bond to make his excuses, extricate himself from the cats and make a quick exit, but he just kept smiling and said, ‘That sounds delightful, Q.’

There was definite sarcasm in Bond’s voice. Q said flatly, ‘You’re going to complain all the way through, aren’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Bond said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that confirmed all of Q’s suspicions. It was unreasonably charming and, to Q’s irritation, he could hardly object when he’d spent most of the month enjoying every moment of Bond’s grumbling about Christmas clichés.

‘Right,’ he said, resigning himself to his fate with an entirely fabricated put-upon sigh. He went to make the drinks, leaving a very smug Bond on the couch with two purring cats to keep him company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Christmas film(s) do you think Bond and Q should watch ...? Pick your favourite and/or whatever is the most hilarious to imagine and please do tell me in the comments! ;)
> 
> I had fun with this chapter, I hope you did too! I think Bond lurking in Q's flat, wearing the horrible jumper, was the first thing I wrote for this fic, and it's still one of my favourite sections, haha.
> 
> And thank you pinkfairy727 for helping me name Sandringham.
> 
> Christmas Day will continue in Chapter Five ...


	5. Chapter 5

‘I hope you haven’t set your hopes too high for Christmas dinner,’ Q said as the credits rolled and noon approached. The cats had long since made themselves scarce and Bond had finished his tea in the first act, but he hadn’t made any move to leave. Q went on with his warning, just so Bond knew what he was he was letting himself in for if he stayed any longer: ‘We won’t starve, but there’s definitely not a turkey hiding in my fridge.’

‘I thought as much,’ Bond said, though he didn’t sound particularly upset to have his assumptions confirmed. ‘It’s all right. We can use my reservation.’

Q blinked at him. ‘What?’

‘I have a reservation,’ Bond repeated. ‘At a restaurant.’

Q had the distinct impression that he was being deliberately vague about which restaurant, probably because it was one of London’s most expensive. He narrowed his eyes. ‘I hardly think they’ll be pleased when two of us turn up instead of one for Christmas lunch.’

Bond’s easy smile remained in place. ‘I booked a table for two,’ he said calmly. ‘I usually manage to find myself some company.’

Q suppressed a nervous laugh. He could well imagine the kind of company Bond normally liked to keep over Christmas.

‘I suppose I’m a bit of a disappointment,’ he said. It was very easy to picture Bond’s type. From there his mind supplied a succinct theory of how Bond had probably expected today to go: the morning spent lazily, most likely in bed until the very last possible moment; he and his companion dressing for an elegant lunch, probably with champagne and cocktails and excessive sexual tension; retiring to bed again afterwards.

‘Not at all,’ Bond replied, cutting through Q’s thoughts.

Q paused to really look at him. Bond lounged in the corner of the sofa nearest the tree: perfectly at ease, smiling faintly, his arm draped along the back as if it belonged there. Q didn’t think it was a front. Bond was quite capable of appearing calm and collected even in the most stressful of circumstances, but there was something about the look in his eyes that suggested that this was genuine. He had been in a startlingly good mood all morning, even in the face of the horrible jumper, cat hair, and Q’s selection of Christmas films.

‘I’m sure you’ll continue to be excellent company over lunch, Q, and it’s the least I can do after intruding upon your Christmas,’ Bond said.

‘I doubt I even have anything suitable to wear to the kind of place you’re likely to have booked for Christmas dinner,’ Q said, making one last ditch protest. After all, he hadn’t intended to leave the house, let alone go for an expensive lunch.

‘Just put on a suit,’ Bond said as he rose to his feet. He smirked, ice-blue eyes sparkling. ‘Even you must have one of those.’

Q glared up at him. ‘You do realise I could rig every single piece of equipment I give you to explode in your face?’

‘I thought you didn’t do pyrotechnics,’ Bond replied smoothly. Then he nodded towards the front door. ‘I left my suit in the car.’

‘I shall resist the urge to lock you out,’ Q said as he too got up and started towards his bedroom. ‘Not that that would stop you, apparently.’

He shut the door on Bond’s answering laughter.

Q did have a suit, and it was a nice suit at that. He didn’t wear it often because working in Q Branch meant he was as likely to spend his day elbow-deep in the innards of a car or stripping down and testing the latest in their line of prototype firearms as in front of his laptop screen. He didn’t want to get oil, grease, gunpowder residue or all of the above on his fanciest items of clothing, and he especially didn’t want them to be accidentally set on fire. Despite his aversion to inconsequential items that happened to double as incendiaries, Q Branch did sometimes deal in explosives, and all of the fire-retardant safety equipment in the world couldn’t save his shirt sleeves on occasion. No, his work attire was carefully calculated to blend formality, ease of movement and relative economy with actual style — even if Bond wouldn’t believe the latter. It was not his fault that Bond was never in the country when he was dressed up nicely for his annual budget review. Or for the various hearings and inquests that inevitably followed the more dramatic of Bond’s missions, for that matter. Trust the man himself to be mysteriously absent for those.

He was still choosing the best shirt and tie to wear when he heard the front door, followed by footsteps and, from the sounds of it, the bathroom door. He told himself to stop stalling, selected his favourites and started getting dressed.

When he went out into the living room, Bond was waiting. He was standing in the pose that Q now thought of as his default: feet apart and shoulders squared, right hand caught in his trouser pocket. It was a good pose for looking over one shoulder, Q noted, as Bond did just that. Then Bond’s brows lifted and he turned all the way around, giving Q a very slow and very obvious once-over.

Q swallowed the flutter of pleasure that he’d managed to surprise the other man — to pique his interest, even, if the way his gaze lingered was any indication — and huffed a sigh. ‘Really, James.’

‘Really, Q,’ Bond said softly, and Q had absolutely no control over the way that his insides leapt in response to that tone. Bond circled him, suddenly predatory in a way that he hadn’t been all morning.

Q forced himself to make an effort and rolled his eyes. ‘Do stop looking at me like I’m one of your conquests.’

Bond ignored him. As he came around Q’s other side, he finally peeled away in the direction of the small stash of alcohol in the kitchen.

‘You mind?’ he asked as he sifted through the bottles. ‘If you’re going to dress like that, I’m going to need a drink.’

‘Help yourself,’ Q said with a wave of his hand. Bond pulled out a bottle from somewhere near the back, which Q was willing to bet would be unopened. He didn’t drink often, especially not at home, and when he did, he stuck fairly strictly to vodka and rum, neither of which would be relegated to the nether regions of his drinks selection. He added quickly, ‘Though I can’t speak for the quality.’

‘I’ve had worse,’ Bond said with conviction as he retrieved a glass from the draining board.

It was at this point that Q noticed the absence of small, affectionate suit-ruiners around his ankles. Merlin had a sixth sense when it came to Q’s best clothes and he’d never managed to leave the house dressed like this without him getting hair all over his trouser legs. He asked, ‘What have you done to my cats?’

‘Nothing,’ Bond laughed, breaking the seal on the bottle and pouring himself a generous measure of amber liquid. He tilted the bottle in Q’s direction, but Q shook his head, so he re-capped it and put it to one side before answering. ‘I shut them in the bathroom after I finished changing. You can let them out when we leave.’

‘How magnanimous of you,’ he said, watching as Bond took a sip that was clearly not as smooth as he might have liked, and then took another anyway. Q smiled. ‘I’ll try to stock up on the good stuff for next time.’

‘Next time?’ Bond asked, pausing and lowering the glass.

‘Yes, next time you break in,’ Q said lightly. ‘I like to make my home invaders feel welcome, you see.’

Bond’s smile was slow and painted warmth under Q’s skin. ‘Yes, I noticed that. You could have thrown me out, you know.’

‘That would have defeated the whole object of the jumper,’ Q said. Then when Bond quirked an eyebrow and took a breath, he held up a hand, second-guessing the meaning of his own words. ‘No, wait. I didn’t mean — you weren’t supposed to come here because of the jumper, that’s not what I meant. You weren’t even supposed to know it was me who left it, technically speaking.’

‘Who else would have the balls to break into my flat, Q? Really?’ Bond asked, downing the rest of his drink and then reaching out for the bottle to pour another.

‘Yes, well,’ Q said. He folded his arms and watched Bond watching him as he drank another measure of whiskey.

When Bond was finished, he set the glass down and gestured towards the front door. ‘Shall we?’

* * *

Lunch was perfect. Q had worried that the conversation, which had trundled along quite amicably in the confines of his flat, might stall once they were seated on either side of a table in public, but it continued without so much as a bump. They ate six decadent courses, including the traditional turkey dinner and a rich helping of Christmas Pudding, and finished with coffee. Bond ordered champagne with the entrees and proceeded to drink most of the bottle. His speech and his eyes remained just as pin-sharp at the end of the meal as they’d been before, but even so Q wouldn’t let him drive.

Without argument, Bond handed over the keys to his Aston Martin.

‘You are old enough to have a driver’s license, aren’t you?’ he teased as he circled around to the passenger side of the car while Q stood on the kerb, dumbfounded. That snapped him out of it.

‘Of course I am!’ he said, and hastened to get in.

Bond insisted that they return to Q’s flat, arguing that he’d meant to give him a lift anyway before Q’s concerns about his blood alcohol level scuppered his plans.

‘Besides, your decorations are better than mine,’ he said when they reached Q’s front door.

Q paused with his key in the lock and raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ll have you know I worked very hard on those, with the extremely limited options available to me.’

Bond laughed, stepping in closer. ‘Of course, Q — I wasn’t belittling your sterling efforts. It was supposed to be a compliment. Although, there’s one thing you missed from my place and yours.’

‘Oh?’ Q asked. He refused to be intimidated, or anything else, by the proximity or the intense focus of Bond’s gaze. ‘What’s that?’

‘Mistletoe.’

‘Mistletoe,’ Q blinked. ‘Why on Earth would I have mistletoe?’

That tradition required more than one person and he lived alone, aside from his cats, and didn’t get visitors — at least, not visitors he had any intention of kissing. Not usually, anyway.

‘Why indeed,’ Bond said with a smile.

Q opened his front door before he could think too hard about what Bond might be implying. The cats rushed down the hall, mewling as if he’d abandoned them for days rather than not a matter of hours, and he left Bond to deal with the door while he crouched to placate them.

‘It seems you were missed,’ Bond said.

‘Apparently,’ Q said, running a hand down the smooth fur of Merlin’s back with a smile. ‘One of the advantages of pet ownership: someone’s always glad when you come home.’

‘Sounds nice,’ Bond murmured.

His voice was wistful, and Q’s heart twisted in response. He looked up on instinct and found Bond watching him, his gaze shockingly soft, a fond smile hovering just in the corners of his mouth.

‘Well, yes,’ Q said, standing quickly and clearing his throat to break the fragile moment. He hurried towards the kitchen, announcing over his shoulder, ‘I’m making hot chocolate, and I’m putting alcohol in it. Do you want some?’

Bond followed him to the kitchen doorway and leaned one shoulder on the frame, folding his arms.

‘How about just the alcohol?’ he asked, and just like that they were back to the familiar territory of teasing. Q felt a rush of simultaneous relief and disappointment.

‘In that case, you know where it is,’ he said, but Bond didn’t move. Q took two mugs down from the cupboard and spooned powdered chocolate into both, and when Bond didn’t argue he set about making them both drinks.

‘Almost three o’clock,’ Bond mentioned, while the milk was spinning gently in the microwave. It took Q a moment to realise the significance.

‘Oh, the Queen’s speech,’ he said, and was rewarded with a small affirmative noise.

He glanced over. Bond was still leaning against the doorframe, cool as ever, and Q knew then that he would never outright ask if they could watch — even if that was, as Q suddenly suspected, his one and only proper Christmas tradition.

So he turned back to the microwave and said, ‘Go and turn the telly on, I’ll bring these in a minute.’

‘I will, if I can figure out your system of remotes,’ Bond said as his voice retreated into the next room.

‘You’re a smart man, James, I’m sure you can manage,’ Q called after him.

By the time he had finished slowly stirring chocolate, warm milk and Bailey’s together, he could hear the announcer introducing the next programme. He hurried through into the living room and sat down beside Bond on the sofa, handing him one of the mugs.

‘Thank you,’ he said, with only a hint of irony, and didn’t mock Q for adding marshmallows.

‘I should warn you, you’re going to end up covered in cat hair,’ he said, because it needed saying: Bond had removed his jacket but he was still wearing the rest of a very expensive dinner suit.

‘I’m sure my dry cleaners can handle it,’ Bond replied, and then fixed his attention on the Queen’s address to the nation.

Q usually tuned in to the broadcast, because at heart he was a traditionalist, but this year he found himself covertly watching Bond instead of the screen. He knew what Bond looked like when he was pretending to listen to someone, and this was quite different. He watched the Queen’s address with the respectful devotion of a dog attuned to his master’s voice — which wasn’t all that inaccurate an analogy.

As the broadcast came to a close, Bond remembered the mug in his hands and took a sip. He smiled to himself, and Q squashed the unnecessary flare of pride.

‘Another film?’ he suggested, because he didn’t want the day to be over yet. He added, ‘Though, if we’re doing that, I’m taking my suit off.’

Bond smirked, his gaze dragging over Q’s body once again. ‘Are you really?’

‘Oh, please,’ Q said, rolling his eyes even as he felt the back of his neck and his cheeks heat with a blush. He stood and waved a hand at the television as he crossed the room. ‘Make yourself useful and choose something for us to watch while I change.’

* * *

By the time the film was finished, the sun had gone down and the cats were demanding their dinner. Q heaved a sigh as he got up to attend to them, making his way to the kitchen with them winding around his shins. He rifled through packets of wet food until he found turkey. It probably said something about him personally that he hadn’t bothered to furnish himself with any specific Christmas food beyond mince pies and tubs of chocolates, but had bought his cats turkey dinners in preparation. He poured out the contents and stuffed the packets deep into the bin, because if Bond saw them he would inevitably make some sort of comment.

‘There,’ he said as he set the bowls down. The cats set to work emptying them before they’d even touched the floor. ‘Happy Christmas.’

He washed his hands, retrieved the mince pies from the cupboard and took them through to the living room. Bond had unfastened his bowtie and the top buttons of his shirt during the film, and his black trousers were flecked with cat hair just as Q had predicted. His stomach flipped over at the sight of him sitting on the couch, gently lit by the light from the Christmas tree and the television, looking for all the world like he belonged there.

‘Did you actually plan to watch all of these?’ Bond asked. He was flicking through the long list of things Q had recorded. He looked over. ‘Where were you going to find the time?’

‘Oh, we invented time travel down in Q Branch ages ago,’ Q said airily, revelling in Bond’s grin as he returned to the couch. He set the mince pies on the coffee table between them and leaned back into the cushions.

‘And we’re not using this incredible new technology in the field because …?’ Bond asked, playing along. He had one arm along the back of the couch again, and as he spoke his hand touched the back of Q’s neck. It was difficult to tell whether or not it was intentional.

‘Well, would you trust a Double-O with that kind of responsibility?’ Q asked. ‘I certainly wouldn’t.’

‘Q,’ Bond scolded gently. ‘You don’t trust me?’

‘You did break into my flat,’ he said.

‘Mm, you broke into mine first,’ Bond reminded him, though his tone suggested he didn’t mind. This time when his fingertips brushed against Q’s neck it seemed less accidental. Goosebumps shivered across his skin in response, but he didn’t move.

‘Touché,’ he admitted, ‘But I was spreading Christmas cheer. I’m not sure what you’re up to.’

‘Aren’t you,’ Bond murmured. His mouth was twisted up at one side into a smirk that seemed more indulgent than his usual variety. ‘I thought it would be obvious.’

Bond’s fingers very gently pushed into Q’s hair and he took a sharp breath as something between anticipation and yearning coiled through his stomach. It was obvious, that was the thing: so obvious that he had assumed it was a joke. What better way for Bond to entertain himself over the holiday than by attempting to fluster his Quartermaster?

Q hadn’t dared consider that the flirtation and the lingering looks might be genuine.

‘James,’ he said, forcing his voice steady.

Before he could get any further into his warning, Sandringham jumped up onto the couch between them. She padded onto Bond’s knee, already producing a hopeful purr. Bond chuckled and removed his fingers from Q’s hair so he could stroke the cat instead.

‘It seems someone doesn’t like you getting all the attention,’ he said, obviously amused even as Sandringham climbed fully into his lap and started kneading.

‘Sandy, come on, now, James doesn’t want you plucking his trousers,’ Q sighed, shifting closer to remove her from him before she did too much damage, but Bond caught his hand to stop him.

‘Oh, I’ll take it as a badge of honour that your cat likes me,’ he said, smirking, and didn’t let Q’s hand go.

‘Your clothes are going to be ruined,’ Q told him, trying not to concentrate on the warmth of Bond’s fingers holding on to him.

‘We both know this isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to one of my dinner suits,’ Bond murmured, and Q huffed a laugh despite the fact that bullet holes and blood stains were not funny. In his moment of distraction, Bond released his hand and instead draped his arm around Q’s shoulders to draw him in against his side.

‘James,’ Q said again, his voice caught between questioning and cautionary.

‘Still don’t trust me?’ Bond said mildly, as if he understood exactly why Q’s spine had gone stiff the moment he pulled him closer. His thumb swept back and forth across Q’s shoulder, soothing.

‘Should I?’ Q asked, twisting to properly look at him and inadvertently tucking himself deeper under his arm.

‘I wish you would,’ Bond said. Again, there was that wistful, almost vulnerable tone that made Q’s chest ache. He didn’t think Bond was toying with him. He wanted to believe he wouldn’t risk their friendship when, unlikely as it might sound, it seemed to matter to him. But Bond must have seen his hesitation because he didn’t push further, just turned his attention back to the television and starting playing whatever recording had been highlighted when he stopped scrolling, filling the lounge with festive music. Q watched him a moment longer, while Bond put down the remote and started scratching under Sandringham’s chin, encouraging both of them to settle with the gentle touch of his hands.

Q found himself slowly relaxing as the film played. He was hyper-aware of Bond, so close they were pressed together, but it helped when Merlin came to sit on his knee and gave him something to do with his hands. At one point, he extracted himself for long enough to retrieve the mince pies and between them they polished off the whole packet, and after that Q’s lids started to drift closed.

The next thing he was aware of was a soft, familiar voice murmuring to him. He hummed in acknowledgement, still half asleep, his brow furrowing as he snuggled deeper into the comfortable warmth — and stilled when he recognised the chuckle that followed.

He peeled open his eyes with difficulty. The living room was dark apart from the glow of the Christmas tree. His head was resting on Bond’s shoulder, and he had turned himself almost completely into Bond’s side while he dozed. 

‘You missed the end,’ Bond said, but quietly, as if he was reluctant to wake him.

Truthfully, Q wasn’t sure he’d taken in any of it, since he couldn’t remember what they had been watching, but he wasn’t about to admit to that. It wouldn’t do for Bond to know just how distracting he’d found it, just sitting together like this. He said, ‘I hope you saved it for me.’

‘Of course,’ Bond said, the corner of his mouth twitching. Q’s gaze flicked to the movement, and though Bond’s face was in shadow it was clear that he’d noticed. He leaned in, and Q’s eyes slipped closed as Bond kissed him.

His heart skipped at the hot, slow press of Bond’s lips. He was still muzzy with sleep, and there was a dreamlike quality to it as he opened his mouth and kissed back. Bond’s hand caressed the side of his neck. Q’s fingers curled unconsciously into his shirt. He arched closer with a low, needy sound, and thrilled when Bond answered with a rumbled groan. After a long moment, he eased back.

‘Are you back in Q Branch tomorrow?’ Bond asked, his voice lower than before.

‘Mm, don’t remind me,’ Q said, trying to stretch without moving too much. He liked his job, very much, but he didn’t need the intrusion of reality just now. It didn’t help that today had been near enough perfect, even before Bond kissed him, and so whatever came tomorrow was bound to be a disappointment.

‘Then I should let you get your beauty sleep. Not that you need it,’ Bond said, and gentle fingers trailed down Q’s jaw to his chin. His surprise must have shown in his face because Bond chuckled, tipping his face up to kiss him, briefly, again. Against his lips, he said, ‘I wouldn’t like to overstay my welcome.’

‘Oh,’ Q said, feeling a stab of disappointment as Bond began to disentangle them, taking care not to jostle him too much.

He sat up, to make things easier, and then had to stretch out the tension in his spine. Bond paused to watch him, blue eyes raking over his body as he twisted himself back him to something like alignment. A flash of heat crawled up the back of his neck when he registered Bond’s gaze, but before he could say anything, Bond had got to his feet and collected his dinner jacket and started shrugging it back on over his rumpled shirt.

‘Right,’ Q said awkwardly as he stood, trying not to fidget. Bond leaving made him feel bereft, but he couldn’t find the words to ask him to stay, and he wasn’t sure what it would mean if he did. He cleared his throat and said, ‘I’ll see you to the door, then?’

Bond allowed Q to usher him along the hall, until they were standing in the narrow space by the front door, too close and not close enough.

‘Well.’ Q had no idea what to say. ‘Let me know you get home safe, won’t you?’

Bond smirked, as if the idea of him getting into trouble on the way back to his flat was so ridiculous that it was entertaining. Q supposed it was, really. He didn’t know why he’d said it, except out of nerves, but he refused to take it back now.

‘I will,’ Bond promised. ‘Thank you, Q.’

Then his hand came up to Q’s cheek to hold him steady as he leaned in for another kiss as he stepped past him. It was chaste, as kisses went, but he lingered over it in a way that made Q want to fist both hands in his lapels and hold on. He resisted the urge, his fingers fluttering uncertainly at Bond’s waist until they parted and he snatched them back.

‘Goodnight,’ he whispered as Bond opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

He strode to the stairs without looking back, but paused at the top with his hand on the railing to look right at Q and call a soft, ‘Merry Christmas.’ 

Q raised a hand, silently waving him off, and waited until Bond had disappeared down the stairs before he shut the door. He leaned against it with a sigh, closing his eyes and trying not to think about the tingle of sensation Bond’s kisses had left on his lips.

Eve was going to have a field day when he told her about his Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of Bond and Q's Christmas Day, and the longest chapter of this fic!
> 
> There will be a (very) short final chapter/epilogue tying things up on New Year's Eve. See you then.


	6. Epilogue

Since he’d taken Christmas Day off, Q put himself down to cover the night shift over New Year. He wasn’t technically alone: a handful of technicians were in too, but he gently but firmly pushed them out onto the embankment at half past eleven with orders not to return until the fireworks were finished unless there was a national emergency. With five minutes to go until midnight and absolutely nothing else happening, he switched one of his monitors to show the BBC footage of the Thames riverbank and sat back with his tea clasped between his hands to await the countdown. Someone Q didn’t recognise was standing with the crowds, asking inane questions and shoving a microphone into people’s faces. He was relieved he’d had the foresight to turn down the volume.

Four minutes before midnight, the doors to Q branch opened. He looked up, ready to berate whichever minion had decided to return early, and saw a familiar figure striding towards him.

‘James,’ he said without thinking.

‘Q,’ he replied, his voice warm and affectionate, and Q’s chest fluttered with something he didn’t dare class as hope.

They hadn’t seen one another since Christmas. They hadn’t even talked beyond a couple of perfunctory texts: Bond assuring Q that he’d got home safely and Q wishing him goodnight and Merry Christmas. He’d agonised over that simple text. He’d thought he’d got it wrong, or that he’d misread Bond’s intentions after all, since there had been no reply — but perhaps not, given the way Bond was looking at him now.

‘Something I can do for you?’ Q said.

There was no mission, no reason at all for him to be in Q Branch on New Year’s Eve, especially so close to midnight. However, Q had to be sure before he made an utter fool of himself.

‘On this occasion, no,’ Bond said. He circled around the workbench until he was standing beside Q’s chair and said, ‘Miss Moneypenny might have mentioned that you were spending the night down here all by yourself.’

It probably ought to worry him that Eve knew he’d be the only one in Q Branch at midnight, even if the duty roster said otherwise. But right now all he could think about was Bond hearing that detail, and deciding to take matters into his own hands.

‘And you thought I’d like some company?’ he asked. He could feel his heartbeat against his sternum.

‘Well, you saved me from a lonely Christmas,’ Bond said with surprising sincerity. Q stared up at him, too taken aback by this candid admission to speak, and his expression must have been so fraught that it prompted Bond to give him an out. ‘Of course, if you’d rather be by yourself …’

‘No!’ he said, almost slopping tea down his favourite cardigan as he jumped to his feet. ‘No, no. Please: I’d like it if you stayed.’

Somehow it was easier to admit than it had been the other day. The words felt safer, too: less a blind leap of faith, more a calculated risk. They’d both had time to think, after all, and Bond had decided to come back. It wasn’t lost on Q that he’d come just in time to kiss him, too.

Bond’s eyes creased at the corners, the blue seeming brighter than it had been a moment before. ‘I’m glad. I wasn’t sure what kind of welcome I’d get.’ Q frowned. Bond saw it for the unspoken question it was and added in an apologetic murmur, ‘I’m not terribly good at this.’

‘‘This’ being what? Answering text messages?’ Q teased, starting to smile. He knew exactly what Bond meant beyond that, of course, but it was easier to come at it from an oblique angle rather than directly. ‘Because I’d noticed. And it’s no great surprise, given how you conduct yourself on missions, so I rather think I know what I’m letting myself in for.’

‘Do you?’ Bond said, his voice flat and almost dangerous but his eyes sparking with amusement.

Probably not. It was far more likely that he was a long way out of his depth, but at least the only shark in the vicinity seemed more inclined to help him float than eat him whole.

‘I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?’ he suggested.

‘I suppose we will,’ Bond smiled. His gaze flicked to the monitor and then back to Q’s face. ‘Not long now.’

‘I’d offer you a drink, but,’ Q twisted around to gesture helplessly at the screen where, projected onto the side of Elizabeth Tower, the numbers were ticking down. There wouldn’t be enough time to make anything hot and, contrary to MI6 legend, Q Branch didn’t have a secret stash of alcohol.

‘Not to worry,’ Bond murmured. His fingers came to rest on Q’s arm, drawing his attention. ‘I have everything I need.’

‘Even without an exploding pen?’ Q asked, because he couldn’t help himself, and was rewarded with a laugh from Bond.

‘Yes, Q, even without that,’ he said, and leaned in to kiss him as the chimes of Big Ben started to ring in the new year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it, the end - or rather, the beginning. ;) Short but sweet.
> 
> It took me six years to get here but I made it - and before the next Bond film, as I originally intended! Haha! \o/ I can't quite believe I'm posting the final chapter of this one. I'm going to miss writing it next December, because it's been such a fixture in my Christmases, but I'm glad I didn't give up on it and could share it with you all this year. (I also think it's one of my more successful attempts at humour too, so that's something to be proud of if nothing else!)
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed reading this fic because I have definitely loved writing it. <3 Happy New Year, everyone.


End file.
